


Longing

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Series: Narnia Musings [37]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: M/M, and Eustace is a bastard as usual, and Lucy is home and atop the sea and laughing; singing, in which Caspian pines and pines and pines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 03:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20650391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: You look at him, and your knees give in, like they always have, since he first stood before you – still legend, still child, still alive, as grave and quiet and dark-eyed as he was a millennium ago, when the trees still danced and the world was thawing; blooming.or:Caspian, King that you are, Caspian that you are; reaching for things, with eyes big enough to swallow the world whole.





	Longing

You look at him, and your knees give in, like they always have, since he first stood before you – still legend, still child, still alive, as grave and quiet and dark-eyed as he was a millennium ago, when the trees still danced and the world was thawing; blooming. 

He looks at you, his hair dripping earthly paint turned Narnian sea water, freckleless, and your knees are as weak as they were when the world around you was still, suffocating, a sword of legends at your throat, the eyes of those who have dug themselves out of the iron drunk soil on your skin and your armour, and the way your voice stumbled and fell at legends’ feet. Your legs still ached then, pressed against the tree as you were, and Edmund looked at you, with his eyes as dark as the soil, a sword at his hip, and the echoes of freckles on his skin – across the bridge of his nose, along the edge of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the fluttering of his eyelashes.

Now, he is pale and wet and freckleless, his clothes unlike anything you have ever seen – his eyes are the same colour they were when a lion crowned you, when the world groaned and awoke and swallowed an army whole; all its horses, all its men. His arm is slung around Lucy, as wet and dripping as he is, but her posture is as upright as it has ever been, her smile like the first warm sunrise after a long winter. And you – king that you are, fool that you are, with your heart in your throat and your tongue all in knots – you wrap your arms around them, solid and warm and breathing, and you cannot manage a word nor even a breath until Edmund’s arms are around you, until you can feel the fabric of his shirt under your fingertips and the wet brush of his hair on your cheek.

_You’re back_, you think and remember a tree, the sun high in the sky and four legends, no longer legends now, with callouses on their fingers and their armours stained first red, then brown, and how small they looked against the summer-blue sky and the way back into their world. _When will I see them again?_, you’d asked the lion, with your hands in your lap and wet cheeks, and you meant _Tell me if I should see him again, with those eyes and that smile, tell me, will I be old and grey and dying, with a life behind me and the world before me, will he know, when he looks at me, how I watch the Woods and wish he could come stumbling back through a wardrobe, a train station, a cave? Tell me, you great lion, that I will see him again and the way his eyes are on my skin._

And now, here he is, dripping and laughing and real in your arms, hold onto him until you can believe your eyes, oh King of Narnia.

*

**From King Caspian’s personal collection of poetry, published after his death:**

_You wish, I expect,_

_ for me to tear myself to shreds_

_Worry over and over_

_ the way your hands_

_ your eyes_

_ your voice_

_ feel on my skin_

_Did you know?_

_ How each time you reach out to me_

_ my chest aches_

_ as if my heart, my lungs, my voice_

_ can scarcely stand to stay within me_

_ and instead_

_ long to wrap themselves_

_ around you_

_Can you tell?_

_ How I’ve missed you, uselessly,_

_ all these years?_

*

The ship creaks underneath and all around you, the quiet mumbling of the changing crew just above you, and the tide splashes lazily against the ship, swaying it. The bed across the room is empty and undone – Edmund’s horrible cousin nowhere in sight, and for a moment, you watch the bed and how soft it must be.

The hammock is rough against your skin, and even lying down like this, you can feel how tangled your hair is, open and salt crusted from the breeze as it is. And yet, there are hands in your hair and a leg slung around your waist, the fluttering of eyelashes against your cheek.

There is a moment, in this quiet swaying, with Edmund pressed against you, and the world all but holding its breath, that you are almost grateful for Eustace and the way he immediately claimed the bed and forced you and Edmund to fold yourselves into this hammock, his legs hooked around you, your arm at his back. He smells of pine trees, of herbs and warm spring rain, and the longer you look at him, the more you can see where his freckles used to be; his scars. And then he opens his eyes, and his freckled lips stretch into a smile. He doesn’t move, his mouth almost at your throat, his hands tangled in your hair.

“Have you been awake long?”, he asks you and looks at you with those dark, dark eyes.

You shake your head and he curls towards you, even closer, his warmth against you, and your tongue ties itself to the back of your throat. He hums softly.

You kiss him. There’s no way not to, warm and heavy with sleep as you are, curled around you and smiling; close as he is, and oh, it’s as if the world has frozen in its tracks – like this, with Edmund pressed against you, his rough lips on yours, his hands in your hair, the taste of salt and herbs on your tongue, the sea in quiet waves against the ship around you.

On deck, Lucy holds her face into the sun rising from the east, closes her eyes and laughs, sings a lullaby for the waking sea that Narnia has long since forgotten – the crew is quiet around her, with their hearts in their throats as they listen to her voice, rough and quiet as it is; full of joy.


End file.
